Muse Wanted

I recently realized that I am the type that needs a muse. Perhaps that can be put down to a lack of imagination on my part, or perhaps I just need the inspiration that a muse provides. Though I like to think that I do posses both an imagination and an overly developed ability to lie with aplomb, I still seem to require the muse that allows both of those abilities to flourish. It was not a happy realization, figuring out that I need to, in some sense, feed off another person in order to allow that imagination to step out into the (mostly) unknown.

I also figure that the task (or more likely the burden) of being my muse is probably a job that keeps that person (usually a female) pissed off quite a bit. Such is the job of being a muse. I figure that the 'Julia' that Robert Herrick used or the Laura that so inspired Petrarch's poetry found a lot of things that could be considered (to them as least) less than flattering.  That is another hazard of the muse. The reading into everything that the person you are inspiring has written something to do with you is probably a terrible position to be placed into. The muse has to wonder 'was that last line, which seemed faintly critical, and vaguely familiar, apply to me?' They also are probably left wondering was that last post/poem/song trying to tell me something? Is this idiot writer/poet/songwriter trying to tell me something that I am just to dense to figure out, or is he or she just using me as a sounding board in order to get his creative juices flowing?

Truth is, that if the one doing the composing is good/smart enough, the muse will not be able to answer those questions, and will be left wondering if they are the cause, inspiration, or just merely a side line in the composition.  Still a muse is needed for those exact reasons. They may wonder that if any off hand comment they make can then be 'turned into' something with much further reaching consequences, but I suppose that is another hazard of being a muse in the first place. It must be a bit maddening of a position, and I suspect that not a lot of people would overly enjoy the job. Which is probably why that I, at the present moment at least, lacking a muse.

The position of my muse is clearly not something for the faint of heart. I can be a right bastard, as the temporary muse of last night reminded me when she repeatedly reminded me that she 'hated me'. Well, that sounds like a' her' problem not a 'me' problem, and that is how I divide all the problems in the world. From world hunger, to not enough hand soap in public restrooms, all the world's problems  are  placed (by me at least) on either side of that invisible line. My problems are the ones that I attempt, but usually fail, to fix first. Those are the important ones the problems that have localized themselves to and around me. The really tough ones that really need some serious solving.  There are, thankfully, a lot less of my problems in relation to the number of the world's problems, but there are a lot more people in the world dedicated to solving those problems. As far as I can ascertain, I am the only person on this rock, that is fully dedicated, using the term very broadly, to solving my problems.

Which is quite sad, because my problems, even though they might be few in number, have some real staying power. They have to, or else I, being such a clever lad, would have solved them by now.  Though I figure the muse, if she ever comes back into existence will have a high old time trying to convince me that her and my problems overlap. Which, sadly they don't, and even more sadly that lack of an overlap quickly becomes a whole different problem.  The desire to overlap our problems has been the 'death' of several muses in my past, and I figure that I should probably realize that, unless I change my evil ways, might be a serious obstacle to obtaining any new muses in my future. That brilliant insight, is of course, much easier to write or think that to implement, but one can hope that one can do better in future.


That my future dabbling in the world of writing might require the services of a muse is, in many ways, a very depressing thought. Almost as depressing as the current landscape of possible muses in my life. It is a very, and I mean no offense to anyone, barren field which I find myself staring out upon.  The job has been vacant for quite a while, and it does not look like the position is anywhere close to being filled.  Though one doesn't generally put out a 'Vacancy' sign in the world of muse finding. You can not just pop onto Craigslist to and scroll through the personals for a muse. I doubt anyone, ever, in any time or place has claimed to be a muse for hire. Which is quite a shame, but I guess that is how the world of muses works.  It is probably easier to build an atomic bomb that to unearth a muse. After all you can just bloody Google the instructions for making a bomb, which I recommend doing on a computer that you do not own, or can be traced back to you.

I also figure that if a muse is to be found, and tricked into taking on the job, it will not be from behind this keyboard in the crap hole of an apartment that is my current residence. I also figure that walking up to people and asking 'will you be my muse' will lead to me receiving a lot of odd looks, and polite refusals if I am lucky. More likely I will be called a creep, receive some withering looks, and a good slap or two for my trouble. However, one never knows the answer to this type of question until one asks, at least that's my theory, and for all of those no's that Petrarch and Robert Herrick probably received, they did manage to get one yes. And that yes, that wonderful answer, that answer that makes hearts go thump, and opens up an entirely new world of possibility, poetry, and prose, is the answer that makes everything else worthwhile..  And the search for that one yes, that one person that is just daft enough to take that wild chance that I am offering them, is in many ways, ironically enough, a muse in its own right. 

Atoms splitting and such

Let's say, for the sake of argument, that you want to split the atom. You've determined that you've had enough of the drudgery of your day job (whatever that might be), and you want to be one of the few famous geniuses that can split the atom. Perhaps you want to make a bomb (that is the example I will use), or perhaps you want to own a nuclear power plant. Thus fulfilling your lifelong dream to emulate Monty Burns from the Simpsons. Both of these goals, in their own way, are fine goals, and they are going to take a lot of work to achieve.

But, you're a hard worker, the best in fact just let anyone ask you, and you will tell them how much more work you do than the average worker bee in your hive.  However, there are a few important steps you are going to have to take before you build your bomb, and show the world how pure your genius is.  One you are going to HAVE to get your hands on the raw material(s). You have that understanding that you want to produce a nuclear bomb, designed to release all of its energy at once, as opposed to a nuclear reactor that is designed to create a steady source of nuclear power. That is a good solid first step, it will help you understand what it is you will require.

And what you are first going to require depends on a very important question. Do you want to use the 'gun' method of setting off your device, or would you like to try the fancy way, and use the implosion method. If you choose the former then your starting material choices are a bit more flexible. You can use Uranium 233, Uranium 235, Plutonium 239, or more rarely Neptunium 237. If you decide to build the gun method then you HAVE to acquire some Uranium, for reasons that I don't really understand, but have on good authority, Plutonium can not be practically used in this method. Either way these types of raw materials aren't just laying about for some unrecognized genius like yourself just to scoop up like ice cream from your local Ben and Jerry's. No, sad to say, this shit is regulated quite strictly and that just doesn't seem fair to you.  Also, you are going to have to obtain quite a large chunk of high explosives, something like TNT for example. This might be somewhat easier to obtain, but you're going to need lots of the shit, because you are going to need to make an explosion big enough that forces your nuclear material to go 'critical'.

And critical is important because if you cannot get the density of your raw nuclear material to increase in density by a factor of between two and four, then you've wasted a lot of time, and are probably going to be in prison for a very long time. Since you've probably had to either buy, at some very high price, that Plutonium or Uranium from some Libyans, or you nicked it from your local nuclear power plant whilst no one was looking. Both of those scenarios are really quite unlikely, and therein lies the rub. The one fundamental problem with this idea brilliant idea of yours. You're not a fucking country like France, you don't have easy, or any, access to fucking Plutonium, and you're not ever in your life going to come within stealing distance of either Plutonium, Uranium, or that much TNT.  Even if, heaven forbid, you did. You're also not a nuclear scientist you are not Robert Oppenheimer, and your degree in some social science did not provide you the correct background in the field of splitting the goddamn atom.

Hopefully by now, if you have any sense whatsoever, you've come to realize that maybe, just maybe atom splitting is something you either need to leave to the professionals, or start the long, arduous trek that will lead you to becoming a professional atom splitter yourself. After all, you're a bright lad/lass and if you put your mind to it, and borrow about a million dollars in student loans to finance the gazillion years of schooling you will need, you too can, if you are lucky, smart, and good enough split your very first atom. I suspect that it must be a very wonderful feeling, like touching the face of the Mona Lisa, or some other great human accomplishment, but I wouldn't know after all I haven't yet split the atom, nor do I have any plans to try.

That shouldn't stop you from your stated goal, and if you get all those materials and all that knowledge maybe some nice country like North Korea will offer you a well paying job as the head of their rogue nuclear programs. A boy or girl can dream can't they?  Just remember it is a marathon not a sprint, like most things in life, and it probably not going to come in 6 months or even 2 years for that matter. But things worth having are worth waiting for aren't they?  Remember that old saying about putting the cart in front of the horse, or the other one about learning to crawl before you walk. Well those type of saying exist for a reason because if you lack a fundamental item, say Plutonium, or fundamental knowledge,(like you think that neutrons involve some sort of dance) then maybe, just maybe you need to go back to the basics. Those fundamentals that we all hate, but find necessary to accomplish our day to day tasks. You are not the Michael Jordan of nuclear fission (of fusion for that matter), and it might behoove you to try being a bit humble, and a bit of a team player. Of course team playing has it own pitfalls, and those can sometimes leave behind large mushroom clouds than the nuclear bomb you so desperately want to build. Sometimes it doing the small things that count, you master those, and then you can lay waste to all the cities you choose. Good luck, you are going to need it. 

Alice, Unchained

A bit of a step out into the unknown, bear with me.


Recently in a fit of conspicuous consumption, I purchased satellite radio for my vehicle. It was a purchase that I did not really need, but one I felt the need to make anyway. Well, after a couple of months of listening to this purchase.  I have now realized that one of the main stations I listen to has an Alice in Chains addiction. Meaning that they play the ever living fuck out of the band Alice in Chains. A LOT.  It has gotten so bad that when I tune in the station I am beginning not to just predict that it will be playing Alice in Chains, but I am now trying to predict which song by that band will be playing. It has happened three times in the last week that I got both song, and artist correct when I got into my car. That is beyond sad, and leads, however crookedly to the point of this post, prediction.

I have a job, not a career, a job. This job requires my presence during a certain time frame 5 days a week. Outrageous I know, but such is the fate of modern men that aren't independently wealthy, or that haven't married money, yet.  This job leads me to arising out of my nice, warm bed at pretty much the same time everyday, getting myself cleaned, dressed, and out the door of this coffin I call an apartment to drive myself to my place of work.  I take the same route to and from work everyday, and this had lead to two more predictions about my life (such as it is) that I can make with almost complete accuracy.  One of them is that I will catch the same light RED everyday, it has been almost three weeks since I started counting, and everyday so far, I have caught this one particular red light everyday. Now that is a bit annoying, but I do catch my fair share of the other lights green, so I figure it's a bit of a wash, but what are the odds of catching this one light red all the time? It has gotten so I expect it, and just sit there waiting for the light to change listening to Alice in Chains, and accepting my lot in life. The other prediction is that almost everyday someone will turn off of the street I am taking to work onto a certain, poorly lit and sort of a dead end street, in front of me. I am not sure what happens on this street that makes it such a popular place at 6:40 in the morning, and I am sort of afraid to find out.

All of these sad predictions have lead me to realize that I can predict other things in the circus I call a life, and I am getting quite, quite good at it. I can predict what people (the ones I know, and the ones I have to deal with in regards to my job) will do, before they do it. One of my favourite sayings is "that if people were horses, I would never have to work again." Meaning, clearly, that if I could predict the ponies as well I can predict the people in my life, then I would be in the south of France, piss drunk, typing this as a farewell to all of that type of post. Sadly, the ponies just don't seem to be as willing as the people in  my life to cooperate with my predictions.  This is why I am not quite able to chuck the job over, and live the life of leisure that I feel I deserve.

I understand the outrageous arrogance that the above statement sounds like, and I own it. I can not help that either my life is so sad (probably) or that the people are so easy to predict (less likely) that I know what is going to happen before it does. This must be what the Dennis Bergkamps of the world feel like. Being able to see the pattern of the defense, the movement of your teammates, and the path the ball must take in order to end up in the back of the old onion bag before anyone else on the pitch, teammates included, have a clue.  It is a gift, or so I've been told, but as usual I don't quite see it that way.

In fact, like most of the things in my life, I see it as a curse. The curse that Sartre saw, and wrote about so well in his novel Nausea. The curse that Camus wrote about in 'The Stranger' where the main character kills an Arab just to break up the monotony of his days.  My days, or at least 5 out of every 7 of them form almost the exact same pattern. A pattern that is so easy to predict that I can tell you Alice in Chains is playing on a radio station before I even turn on the radio, that isn't cool, it isn't neat, it isn't even creepy (though it is closer to the latter) it is just sad. Sad that I realize I am, in less that 11 hours, going to be whistling my way through "Man in a Box" while I wait for a red light at a certain intersection to turn from red to green.  Sad that I will once again wonder, but fail to investigate, what is going down on that lonely side street that all those people turn down upon at 7 a.m. every morning.

These days of 'quite desperation' that strung together represent my life. The 5 out of 7 days where I do not step out of a life so boring to entertain anyone (not even all you readers at home). The fact of the matter is that most of this desperation is my own fault, and in many ways I should be thankful for it. After all that job I possess does provide me food and drink, and those bills are not inconsiderate.  It allows me to have a car, a place to sleep, and a clothes to wear (a prospect that makes the rest of the world happy as well).  However, I can not but feel the siren's call of something else, something that I am not quite sure how to describe, a type of seven year itch perhaps, or a call of the wild. The whispers on the edge of my hearing that are saying to me that 'there is something else out here for you GI, you just have to have the courage to grab it.'

However, I have yet to screw my courage up to that particular sticking point, and so I will wait, and predict my way through another day, annoy my friends by telling them I can do it, and wait with bated breath for 'The Rooster' to come over the airwaves. Alice really, really, needs to be unchained.

Narmare

'Come closer' she murmured lazily, as if it took all of her effort to force those two little words out from behind her perfectly straight teeth. I glanced over at her, and said ' we are in bed less than two feet from each other, how much closer can I get?'  It was, in retrospect, a particularly bad thing to say, and it was a bad time to say it. But my sense of timing has never been what you would call well planned. As expected, this idiotic comment led to her getting further away, not closer, and in the cold light of the morning led to an argument that did not go especially well for yours truly.

It was not a comment on physical distance is the gist of what she was trying to say, it was an invitation for me to come emotionally closer. Closer to the ideal of what a relationship should be rather than the poor imitation that we were presently 'living out'.  It almost always befuddles me when I get this type of comment, mostly because I know exactly what kind of jackass I am, and generally cannot fathom why anyone in their right mind would want me closer, physically or otherwise.  Yet I hold on to the hope that I will one day get it right, and hope that despite my growing fears, I will be able to change my ways, and become closer to someone.

It wasn't to be her because once I made that off hand, poorly thought out comment, we both knew that closer wasn't going to happen between us. It was the death knell of a relationship that was already sailing through some rough seas, and this was the last leak sprung that would lead to the ship of our relationship foundering upon the rocks of my emotional unavailability. Quite sad really, but the idea of closer was just something I've never been good at (expect in the physical sense of course). It is a article of my (lack of faith) that when I hear that sentence (said in various forms) I hit some sort of panic/eject button, and shit starts to break bad.

It is also a sign of my immaturity, my inability to 'come closer' in more than the physical sense. Something that a person of my advanced years should be able to do. However, the valley of my heart seems to be empty, and all I can do is walk away when I heard the words 'come closer'. I am holding out the slim hope that I will find the moral fortitude to change this fatal (at least to relationships) flaw that I possess.  However, as I laid there next to her I realized that I could not confess my follies, and could not confess any sort of long lasting love.  I am not that good at expressing the few feelings that I do actually have.  Those feeling are kept very close to the chest, in a tightly lock compartment in my mind. Kept apart from the heart strings, those things that people like her attempt to pluck just to see what kind, if any, of a reaction they get.  Those strings are not ever going to become a noose that can be slipped around my neck, and that is probably part of the problem. They are there but they don't vibrate when plucked, instead they because painfully still.

And so I couldn't come closer to her, and I like to think part of her knew it. I like to think that because it takes me off the hook a bit. It makes it less my fault and more her fault. And to me that is important, it allows the guilt I should feel to slide past me like an out of control duck on a sheet of ice. It makes me blame her, even though I know I shouldn't and that blaming her is a cowardly thing to do. I am trying, and probably failing, to shoulder my part of the blame in the disaster that followed. A disaster that took me (surprisingly enough) way too long to finally process, and put away in its allotted compartment.  It was a tight fit, and I had to push a lot harder than I figured in order to get the door shut, but shut it did. And a rather large, rather clear 'DO NOT OPEN' sign was placed on the outside for future reference. Of course this compartment exists in a row full of similarly marked compartments that, in spite of the warnings, I do sometimes open. Usually to my cost.  This post being one of them. Ah, well the desire to come closer, much like wisdom, seems to come late.

Systems

Despair, that constant but not always visible, companion has driven me back to this keyboard. Back again to stay at least for a little while. In the hopeful, but ultimately fruitless attempt to alleviate that despair by putting it on 'paper.'  If  I had my way this wouldn't be true, but I am tethered to my despair like an inmate of old was tethered to his ball and chain. This despair feels as heavy as that ball and chain, and sadly just as difficult to shed.  Moonlight filters through the window as I lie (or is it lay) here stretching out into this despair that feels like a blanket. It provides some modicum of warmth, but it also, after a while, becomes oppressive.

It wasn't supposed to be like this you know. I had, in my foolishness, thought I had sloughed off this despair like a snake shedding its skin. I had put this despair in my rear view mirror as I motored my way down another one of life's lost highways.  A firm, well-reasoned, sober (for a change) decision had been made by the one person in my life that counts (i.e. me), and that decision was to leave 'despair town' for good. Little did I know that just wasn't going to happen. It seems that despair town isn't one set location, a place that you could place on a map with a big red "X" and a sign on the outskirts of the town warning people to 'be ware' and 'avoid at all costs.'

No it would appear, much to my chagrin, that much like Eeyore's dark cloud, despair town follows me around. Despair town is whatever place I am flopping at any given time. Be it my present location, Paris, France, or Brazil. It moves with me like a second skin that I struggle to breathe through.  Perhaps if I just were to sneak out the back door, I could give despair the slip. Even if just for a little while. It would be a pleasant time I am convinced to be despair-less for a while. A bit like breaking out of jail, you know you're going to get caught and shoved back into that cage the world has built for you, but for now you are going to revel in the precious few moments of freedom you have left before they close the lid back down on your coffin.

And you want that freedom to last as long as possible, so you try to elongate the time in which you are free. As if you can make three hours of freedom equal six hours of despair. Making time longer is quite a trick, and one that I've been unable to pull off with any degree of success.  I've often wondered if you can, even if for a mere few seconds make time slow down (if not stop). Despair can almost accomplish that masterful feat. Wait until something truly awful happens to you, and then you will realize that time has, if not stopped, it has at least slowed down, as you live a lifetime of despair in less than 60 seconds.

Of course all this isn't some sort of 'cry for help.' Truth be told I would not accept any help even if it was offered, which I doubt it will be. No, the exit to despair town, if such a wonderful thing does exist has to be discovered on your own. If you have help finding the exit of despair town, you might soon realize the fatal mistake you've made. If you need help getting out, then I suspect it will be all the more easier to find your way back in once that help is withdrawn. And, make no mistake, that help, no matter how well intentioned, will eventually be withdrawn. That is why you have to, no matter how difficult it may be, refuse any proffered help. It is just a temporary escape, and a bit like fool's gold. Sure it is shiny, and feels real, but at the end of the day (and there will be an end of the day make no mistake) it is a broken reed. A trick to get you to think that maybe everything isn't so bad after all.

And maybe everything isn't so bad after all, but you have to be the one to design, implement, and live with the system that gets you out of despair town. It is your town, and you're the mayor, and only you can un-elect yourself. No one else in any town, place, or time can do this for you. And your mayor-ship is the sweet revenge of life getting back at you for all the bad things you've done to both others and yourself. You know what they are even if you don't want to admit them, and you don't have to have them emblazoned upon some type of school jacket that you have to wear around the town square of despair town to show off to the other residents. No those sins, are your sins to own, and to attempt, in some small way, to fix, to make good upon so that maybe you can take the bridge out of despair town.  And it is incumbent upon you to find that bridge, once in despair town you can't just sit there like a princess in a stone tower waiting for your knight errant to come and take you away from all of this. In fact, you have to wander despair town's streets, avenues, and alleys searching for that bridge out of this shit hole. As you wander those dark (they are always dark, and it is usually raining as well) streets searching those high walls, you have to begin to wonder why wouldn't they put a gate in these walls? Well despair town didn't and whether you care for their city planning or not, you are stuck here until you find the bridge out of town.

 If you manage to find that bridge you should arm yourself with a nice container of gas, a book (just to be on the safe side, how many arson attempts have failed for want of a good match) of matches, and a handy rag. For as you walk that bridge out of despair town, you should leave behind you a trail of gasoline, which, upon reaching the far shore, you light with your match and rag combination. Watching it burn, from a safe distance of course, is perhaps the happiest you will ever be. Enjoy while it lasts because it is just possible the next town down the road could be, even though it is hard to believe, worse than despair town.

Sang Froid

This is for all of those long lost, sorely missed, and almost forgotten Valentines of mine.

It is hard to figure why I am sans Valentine this year, after all I am still the witty, urbane, handsome fellow that I have been for the last several Valentine Days.  Nevertheless here I am not quite sad but still alone for the day designed by Hallmark for lovers everywhere. Good thing that I have an imagination. It allows me to conjure up all sorts of women that are chomping at the proverbial bit for the honour of being my valentine. Alas, the imagination only gets one so far in this world, and eventually the siren song of internet porn soon becomes too much to resist.

To all of those previous Valentine's of mine I would like to say two things. One is thank you and the other is I am sorry. The reason for both of those statements need not be explained. If you were (un)lucky enough to be a Valentine of mine, you will know the reason behind both of those statements without me giving away too much information.

Therefore this post is dedicated to those previous people who, for whatever reason, decided that being my Valentine was a good idea. Perhaps it was an act of desperation rather than love, but at the time (at least) they had be fairly convinced it was love. To the one that decided that this day above all others was the day to throw me out of her apartment whilst I was in the middle of a murder trial. To the one that thought throwing a red Velvet cake at me was the solution to our problems (it wasn't). To the one that thinks this day is for women only to get gifts, which might explain why no flowers or candy have been delivered to my house or workplace. To the one that I have known the longest and understand the least that figured not speaking to me for over two years was a good idea (and to be honest it probably was). In fact, it was such a good idea that subsequent Valentines have followed her example. 

Anyone who has had the misfortune to actually know me (well) will tell you that I am not good at holidays either the real ones or the ones created by Hallmark to peddle a few million cards. I belong to the school of thought that setting aside one day to act the way that you should be acting the other 364 (or5) is just plain silly. After all, if you are so very much 'in love' with a person they should be able to tell, unless they are particularly dense, without you having to go all sappy for/over them one day a year. But therein lies the rub, no one can be that sappy all the time, if they are you should probably have them evaluated by a mental health expert. To attempt to condense this sappiness into one 24 hour period is quite simply madness. Love, or sappiness in this story in a condensed form can be quite deadly. It is best portioned out over a period of time, that is why (in theory) relationships last, and is why one night stands generally don't. 

Either way you slice it today is a made up holiday, a day that we are obligated to treat the special one (if it is only one) in our life the way we should really treat them the rest of the year. However, I guess that much chocolate or candy might lead to tooth decay, or other problems that might actually harm that special one of our choice. I prefer to pick my own, obscure day to celebrate. Like the random Wednesday night that I celebrated (mostly alone) last night, or another day 3 days hence that has special meaning to me and one other person (and no I am not talking about Michael Jordan).  Those are the true holidays the ones that mean something, sometimes only to you, that aren't forced upon us by the Hallmark and candy mafia. 

Finally to the future Valentines, if any still exist, read this post with a grain of salt (or two), parts of it were certainly written 'tongue in cheek' as they (whomever they are) say. However, be aware that my nascent romanticism does not bloom on one certain day a year, like those pretty red roses you have on your desk, but it also does not (usually) die and wither away that quickly either.  Happy Vday.

i gar

"We need to talk about yesterday" she said as she looked at me with those cornflower blue eyes whose gaze usually made me melt, and forget any sort of transgressions she may have committed. "Sure" I replied, using that dangerous word that I, despite my best efforts, have been unable to eradicate from my vocabulary.  That set those blue eyes glittering, and I knew that there was a storm front about to pass through what had been a relatively sunny day.  Truth be told, I replied with that one word because yesterday to me was already a 'closed file'. Something that had been marked closed by the librarian of my mind, and filed away in the newly created compartment of my overly compartmentalized mind.

Now, as I scrambled to relocate, open, and scan that file I realized that even if I managed to accomplish that nearly impossible feat in the few seconds allowed to me, that the scant few lines in the file would not provide me a single clue as to why we 'needed to talk'.  Those lines, if I were able to find them, would have merely recorded another day, at least to me. A day of simply co-existing, nothing major had happened, after all what sort of life changing events happen on a Monday?  Of course life changing to me and life changing to her are probably radically different things, and I really suppose I should start paying more attention to her, to life, and to change. That is a great resolution/idea, and one that firmly swore to implement as soon as possible. The problem was that I didn't have that time. This 'we need to talk' moment was happening now, and I seriously doubted that any attempt to reschedule for a time more convenient for me would be looked upon favourably. 

In fact, I suddenly realized that whilst I had been thinking the above mentioned thoughts, she had been talking away without noticing my complete lack of attention. Not a good sign, it is never good to attempt to reconstruct the parts of a woman's soliloquy that you've missed while you were wool gathering. Nodding and smiling sometimes works, but that can be particularly dangerous as you might find yourself agreeing to meeting her parents, or going to the opera on some random Thursday night (the poker night of you and your pals).  Perhaps it would be best to try an non-committal grunt, and hope that the next few sentences she speaks gives you a clue as to the content of the bit that you missed. Also a tricky strategy that women are fairly quick to realize, they sort out quite easily that your 'grunts' mean that you haven't been listening, and the next words you hear might be the prelude to what we have labelled a 'storm off.'  Those are not fun at all, and going after a woman that is storming off is a bit like running the bulls at Pamplona.  The word suicidal springs to mind.

Then came the pause, the moment when she is done with her speech, and it is now my turn to reply. That is what our conversations had developed into. One person talked, and the other person listened, then vice versa. It was lovely, and it was one of the things that attracted me to her the most (no it wasn't the deep auburn of her shoulder length hair, it was her conversation).  But therein lies the rub, our conversations were predicated one the fact that whilst one of us was talking the other one was actually listening. Not sitting there in some blind panic, trying to remember what he/she had done wrong yesterday that needed to be 'talked about' some scant twenty-four hours later.  Well they say that honesty is the best policy a theory that I've never really subscribed to, but one never knows if it will work till one tries. After all it might work, and 'they' (whomever they are) might actually be right for once.

 Therefore, I put on my best sheepish grin, and calmly said 'I'm sorry love, but I was too busy trying to remember what you could have been referring to about yesterday, that I missed what you just said.  Would you mind repeating it just to catch me up to speed?"  Several emotions clearly crossed her face, disbelief, shock, anger, and all the other usual suspects, but when she opened her mouth to reply all I heard was this beep! beep! beep!. Now it was my turn to be puzzled, had she suddenly turned into the bloody Road Runner from Loony Tunes? Why was she just beeping at me like some madwoman that has just escaped from Bedlam?  That was when the hammer of consciousness came down and shattered this dream like a large rock being dropped onto the still surface of a very calm lake.

Me vs January 23rd

Yesterday, was as I mentioned to several people, not a super sparkly day for me. It started poorly, tried to rally mid-day, and then fell to absolute shit near the end. This post is a recap of my day in the framework of a futbol game. (In case you lot couldn't sort it out for yourselves).

The match of me versus yesterday was scheduled, as you might expect for yesterday. Yesterday, on paper and from the reports of my advance scouts, did not seem to be some Chelsea-like squad. After all, it was any burly day like xmas or thanksgiving. So, in the main, as I lined up my starting eleven against yesterday's starting eleven, I felt that I had a chance to at least snatch a draw. And a draw with life, in the guise, of yesterday, is sometimes (most times) about the best result you can expect. In fact yesterday versus me was billed as a bit like a Stoke versus Sunderland match. Two middle of the table teams that were fairly well matched, and neither one a particularly exciting club to watch. Yesterday versus me was shaping up to be a bit of a snore match, worth watching if a) it were the only game on, or b) you had a vested interest in either club. All in all, the crowd for me versus yesterday was predicated (and predictably) quite small.

It started, if not brightly, well enough. It is always important to get a feel for the match early, and not to get caught out too soon. Falling behind within the first 10 minutes can be quite a morale killer, and sometimes is just a signal of disaster, like the first few pebbles that zip past you, as you climb whatever mountain that is in front of you, before the avalanche buries you for good. My squad depleted as they are by injury and poor form, managed to weather the first 10 minutes with something close to aplomb. We are not Barca, we do not normally have long periods of possession followed by some eye watering piece of skill that puts the ball in the back of the net. No, we are a more workmanlike side soaking up our fair amount of pressure, and hoping to hit on the counter.  We do not score a lot of goals.

As the game progressed things seemed to be going fairly well for us, but as usual when things seem to be going well that is the time to be the most fearful, and right on cue disaster struck. A mix up at the back, my centre halves were at sixes and sevens with each other, and in waltzes their big, lumbering centre forward to complete one of the easiest goals he will ever score. My poor keeper did not have a chance. There we were at the 23 minute mark down 1-nil.  It stung a bit, and it put us back on our heels for a few minutes, often times the first goal of a game, especially a game like me versus yesterday, can settle the whole match.  As I mentioned before, we do not score a lot of goals.

However, things begin to slowly return to an even keel, and in the 34 minute we had a shot that drew a very smart save from yesterday's keeper. It was a good sign, and we began to grow in confidence. This is the part of the match where those over paid blowzy announcers would say "you can sense an equalizer coming before the half." And, for once, they were correct it came in the 43 minute, and was (for us) quite a corker of a goal. Taken with some skill by the only fellow on our squad that can seem to score, thank goodness he is around, or we just wouldn't score at all. There we were going into the half level at 1-1. Things seemed to be looking up, and a spot of tea, and a pep talk from the gaffer were a welcome relief. Also, as with most half times a good solid tinkle helped things as well.

The start of the second half duly arrived, and things were fairly even for the first 15 minutes or so, neither team was able to gain any particular advantage, or impose their will upon the match. Then like a thunderbolt out of a clear blue sky, a goal of absolute brilliance set the match upon its head. It was a shot struck with real venom, and our keeper still is probably wondering what that missile was that sailed past him into the top corner. Two keepers standing side by side in the goal could not have kept that goal from being scored. Here we were at the 61st minute suddenly down 2-1. It was not a good sign, have I mentioned that we do not score a lot of goals. As our befuddled keeper was picking the ball out of the back of his net, and sense of doom began to slowly creep into our squad. A sense of this might not be the end of yesterday's scoring, and that things were about to break bad for us.

Almost as quickly as it took for me to write that sentence, another thunderbolt arrived in the 66 minute, another goal of individual skill the like which my squad can only wish they possess. It was a goal of beauty, and grace, and it left our squad deflated, like a beach ball left over from three summers ago that you find in your attic one day while searching for some photo album of a long forgotten birthday.  Down 3-1, and in need of a change, our gaffer decided to change our tactics just a bit in order to stop the bleeding. We are a stubborn squad, and while not quite resilient team, we at least have to be told more than once that we are beaten. However, we do not score a lot of goals.

Yesterday duly obliged the requirement of telling us we were beaten in 72nd minute with a goal that is not going to make any highlight reels. It was a bit of a goal mouth scramble and a scrappy goal (the type we usually rely on) and while it wasn't all the keepers fault (there was enough blame to go around) it could be said that he 'should have done better, and could have kept that one out.' Well, he should have done better, and he should have kept it out, but he didn't and here we are with almost 20 minutes of normal time to play, down 4-1. Clearly the winner of this match had been decided at this point, and we are just playing for pride at this point. The less said of the dying moments of this lopsided affair the better. We did manage to hit the woodwork in the 81st minute, but it was the last gasp of a dying man. The ball just simply refused to cooperate and cannoned off the bar, and was swiftly cleared up field by yesterday.

As expected when a team is behind 4-1, and the clock is winding down, attention to detail tends to wander, and as our back line's thoughts were wandering to the nearest pub to wash away the shame of this match, yesterday decided to pile one more on, and make the score 5-1 (it happened, in case you care, in the 89th minute). 5-1, and three minutes of stoppage time to play, this was nothing short of a hiding, a being taken behind the woodshed, and beaten like a redheaded step child type of match. One that as the final whistle blew an end to the massacre, we wished we could put it behind us. I mentioned we do not score a lot of goals, but to get crushed 5-1 is just a bit more than we could bear. We desperately wanted to put this day to bed, and forget it happened.

 However, life isn't quite as simple as a football match. For one thing teams don't play matches everyday, and I do. I am here trotting my eleven out and facing January 24th's squad. An all new, all fresh day to 'play' and hopefully draw with, it is the best result I have achieved in a while, a draw that is. But yesterday's beating is still there in the background, it still smarts, and it might even be festering. The lessons learned, and not learned from that pounding have yet to be fully sorted, and it might take a few 'matches' for the bruises (mostly to our psyche) to heal. If they ever do, they might just scab over, and might be re-opened at anytime.  However, in spite of the doom and gloom that pervades this match account, we realize that we do have 'supporters' people who watched the beating unfold, and felt (if only briefly, and secondhand) our pain. We are normally a selfish lot when it comes to pain, we like to hoard it all to ourselves. It is to those supporters, while they are few they are loyal, that we both apologize for yesterday's poor performance, and promise to at least try to do better today and in the future. Without your vocal (and written) support, we would probably just accepted our 'relegation' with merely a whimper, but since you lot are around, we will continue to put out our best eleven, and hope for the best. After all, that is all we can do.

P.S. This post is dedicated to those 'ultras' in my narrow fan base. You know who you are, and you know what that means. Merci.

Kanslofull

I am not a particularly sentimental person. It is probably one of the many reasons that I hate holidays. Almost all holidays, there are multiple others reasons, but a lack of sentimentality is perhaps one of the main reasons for my dislike of holidays.  Therefore, as I was pottering about the shit hole in which I currently reside and found a book that I had actually written something to someone else (when presenting it as a gift), I was a bit surprised that my little 'dedication' was something akin to sentimental.

It is a very, very good book, and I encourage everyone I know to read it, but that is not really the point of this post. I gave the book as a gift, and like the true bastard that I am, I asked for (and received) it back when things went pear shaped (as they often do).  I didn't think much about my little blurb at the beginning of the book until today when I found the book on a shelf that I was attempting to clean (on occasion I do try to clean, a clean shit hole is just a bit nicer of a shit hole).  A quick trip to the kitchen, book in hand, and a quick, judicious use of the scissors, and the 'dedication' was excised, and promptly placed into the rubbish bin. Just like that, no muss, no fuss, no messy stuff. The passage that I wrote with such care, and actual feelings was consigned to the trash bin of history. If only everything was that easy.  Sadly, after I replaced the book on the, now clean shelf, I begin to ponder/wish that it had been that easy to excise the cause of the dedication from my life as well.

It was not that I want(ed) to take a sharp instrument to the person in question, though I suspect they would not have minded carving me up like a xmas turkey on more than on occasion, it is that I wish that I had the moral fortitude to just simply put them behind me as easily as I cut out that dedication of so long ago. I am quite certain that the other person has take her own pair of metaphorical scissors to the chapter that concerns me in the book of her life, and has gleefully sliced out those offending pages. And that is the way I look at it, I was a chapter in the life of another person, for only a certain length of time, or if you prefer, a certain number of pages. A chapter that had a fairly promising beginning, a certain time of pure bliss, and then a middle period of something approaching normalcy, then a few paragraphs that heralded a downturn, and finally a few fair pages of absolute despair, then finis.

The end of the chapter written mostly by, in this case, by the other person. That chapter that is now considered to be radioactive. Something that must be contained in a lead lined container, marked as hazardous material, and stored deep inside some sort of emotion free cellar inside of us. That place that is going to be radioactive for a while, and should be avoided for a while until that memory stops to burn so brightly or so painfully.  It will you know (or at least you sincerely hope), stop being quite so radioactive. It will take time, and it will suck for a while, but eventually you will have to take those lead lined containers, and drop them off a cliff into the sea of forgetfulness that washes away our conscious memories and thoughts. That sea that will, hopefully, eventually erode away the entire island of bad memory upon which you have found yourself stranded.

That chapter that when written will probably read better than it lived, will have to end. And things generally end badly, or else they wouldn't end.  All those chapters with all those bad endings that comprise the book of your life. But not the entire book, there are sections of that book that deal with lots of other things besides badly ending relationships. Other sections that need attending to, that you have neglected for far too long. Sections that you, and you alone, can write. And it must needs be done, this writing of the other, in some ways more important, sections in the book of you. It is something that though you don't quite yet realize it, might help you start a new age of something approaching normal, everyday life. The sun will still rise tomorrow, and when you wake up you might find that new age to be something much more important than just the start of a new year. 

Forbjudna

This post is a couple of days late, but that is usually the story of my life. A day late, and a dollar (or a lot more) short.  Those few, remaining, faithful readers that I still have will remember last christmas, and the debacle of gift giving that it entailed.  This post will not revisit that painful experience any more than is necessary, but is a post to show contrast.

That contrast is provided by this christmas, and the one gift I received.  It was a gift that came in a package of twelve, though there are smaller, and larger packages available. I will eventually need more than a dozen, but for now a dozen will do. It is also a gift that comes in many, many varieties, and I got a package of 4 different types. Some of them are close to my favorites, and some of them I could probably do without, but that is the nature of variety packs. You win some, and you lose some. I will still consume/use eventually. Like all things they have a expiration date, but I am fairly certain that they will be long gone before that future date arrives.

The further joy of this gift was that it was delivered to my house after one simple question being asked. That question, a question that is a solid precursor to any gift giving occasion was 'do you have any of these?' Upon my reply of 'No' the gift giver stopped and purchased the gift without further ado. That is a model of gift giving that we would all do well to follow, no surprises, no gimmicks, no guess work, just a simple question do you have X?, if not then do you want X?, if so then I just bought you X.   This gift does actually require sharing, but after all if a gift is good enough, why not share it. On some level the gift is good for me, and then on other levels it is bad for me. I like versatile gifts, gifts that have the ability to be different things to different people, me included.

In some circles in the world, some circles that I do not subscribe to, the gift is forbidden. That is fine that makes the gift even more perfect. It isn't illegal, and probably never will be, but certain parts of the society in which we live have expressed their extreme displeasure at the gift. However, me and society have never really been on the best (or even speaking) terms, and I could give a tinker's damn about any forbidden aspect of the gift. I am also fairly certain that the gift giver shares my position on this particular subject.  Regardless of our anti-society position, we will at least enjoy some of the gift together.

Therefore, all in all, this gift, this asked for and received gift, has been the one gift that I have received this christmas, and that is fantastic. I am not a good gift receiver, and getting me a gift can be, as you can read for yourself, can be a very tricky proposition. It is not that I am ungrateful, that is what most people would tell you. People who know me, but still just people. People, some quite close to me, that I have not (and probably will not) explain the real, true reason that I do not like getting gifts. That reason is buried in the forests of my past, and I have no intention of excavating it anytime soon. Perhaps, the reason is a silly one, and perhaps it is a valid one, either way it is my reason, and my reason alone. A reason that I carry around with me daily, and one that, like all good secrets, need not be shared. I am very protective/selfish of my reason, and for today just let it suffice to say thanks for the one gift that I have received.


P.S.  I have not divulged what the gift actually is on purpose. My loyal readers are encouraged to guess what it is. 

Sure

"Sure" my reply to a lot of questions. One word, one simple word, that I believed provided an answer to whatever question I am attempting to answer.  This particular question that I provided my 'sure' answer to was about as mundane of a question as a question can be. However, to the person asking the question, the word 'sure' took on a whole different, an not pleasant meaning. This person didn't like my answer, and therefore decided to provide me with a shining example of how that one word would make things go to hell pretty quickly.

The first thing they did was withdraw the question/invitation that had provoked my answer.  This holiday season was, it appeared, about to turn out like most of my holiday seasons. That is to say disappointing. I am not a fan of the holidays, and everyone who cares to know me knows this. It is best to avoid me on days like today that are holidays. I am not quite Scrooge, but I'd certainly give him a run for his money. Actually, in some ways I am probably worse than Scrooge, eventually Scrooge redeems himself, I have no intention to reform my ways. The only spirits that visit me in the night come in a glass with ice.  As I realized that my answer was going to lead to what could be considered a 'relationship' disaster, I did try, for reasons passing understanding, to explain what I meant by that one dangerous word, sure.

To me, and to me alone it seems that sure is a prefect substitute for the word 'yes'.  Other people have pointed out the error of my belief. Other people since that particularly bad day when I first found out that 'sure' to me is a sign of indifference to others.  Trying to explain myself using the Webster's dictionary's version of the word, proved fruitless. It only made things worse, if that was possible. It certainly did not help matters, and matter quickly went from bad to worse. And another christmas miracle, as I like to call them, took place.

I've suffered, and yes that is the correct word, several christmas miracles over the years, and they almost always are my own fault. It is just something that I have grown accustomed to. Like the weather, there appears nothing I can do to prevent these little miracles from happening annually.  These disasters are so similar (expect for some minor details, one involving a relocation to Kansas City), that I could probably go ahead and predict next year's disaster today, and just get it over with now.  Though the latest one, the one we are describing today did teach me a very good lesson.

That lesson the only positive outcome of the latest disaster (disasters usually don't have positive outcomes) is that I now understand the power of just one word. One word of merely four letters can change the entire course of a relationship, a horse, a spaceship, or a rampaging animals. You just have to choose those words with extreme care, it also probably helps to stick with the more obvious words that most people have a tried and true definition already agreed upon.  That one word that you sometimes formulate without so much as a second thought, that you don't even realize will be taken the 'wrong' way, a way you couldn't, even if you tried, fathom. 

These words, our words, my words, and your words, are the only way we can communicate. And, when they go potty then all sorts of things start to go bad. The amount of words you will have to use to 'rescind' that one wrong word you used without any malice will bury you.  And buried for the holidays is not something that is a whole lot of fun.  Presents can get unwrapped, and all that crap, but once disaster strikes, it stays struck, and that is something that your Santa Claus can not fix. god jul!

Pants On Fire

Many, many, years ago I knew a person who lied all the time. And when I say all the time I mean that if they told you the time you could be certain it was anytime but the time they told you. If they said the sky was blue, you could probably wager that it had suddenly changed colours.  To be fair to this individual, when I was introduced to them, the person providing the introduction did say 'this is X, don't believe their lies, and they lie all the time.' I laughed at the time and X just shrugged, as if they were used to this introduction, and were resigned to it being the way they were described.

Over a couple of years X and I got to be fairly close friends, and I begin to realize that the person who introduced us was correct. X lied ALL THE DAMN TIME. Sometimes, a discernible reason was there, and I could almost understand why they had lied. We all lie, and we all lie a lot. We lie to other people, to the cops, to the taxman, to our significant others, and to ourselves. We tell, what we consider 'white lies', just to get through the day.  These lies are just part and parcel of being human beings in contact with other human beings. Some of them are truly white lies, lies that we tell to (at times) protect the feelings of the people we are lying to.  No, that dress does not make you look fat, of course it wasn't your fault that something you were working on fell to pieces, I love you more than anyone else in the world. These types of lies, the lies that we tell each other daily, were child's play to X.

X would tell those types of lies for practice. In many ways, those little white lies that X told was probably the closest that they ever got to telling the truth. The dependable everyday lies, usually told in short sentences, were not really worthy of X's skill. You see, X was a consummate liar, a liar that lied for the sake of lying. X told so many lies that I was fairly certain that they had to have some whiteboard of lies pasted to their bedroom wall just to make sure that they didn't lose the plot. And X was a plotter of the first order. A person who always took the long way to get what they wanted, no matter how simple it could have been accomplished. In many ways, watching X 'work' was a thing of beauty, that is until you realized that everything they said was a blazing lie.

Eventually, like with most things, X's lies got old, real old real fast.  The major problem with X's lies is after a while they started getting sloppy. And a sloppy lie is just awful to behold. I begin to realize that by putting just a tad bit of effort into things I could unravel X's lies, and begin to realize that X was just a complete and utter bastard of a human being.  It wasn't overly difficult to figure out that X was working all sides of the street, just a couple of chats with other people who knew X, and a little comparing of notes made it very clear that X was exactly what our mutual friend had told me they were all those years ago, a liar. And not only was X an liar, but it appeared that X was a bad liar. It is an long held belief of mine (if I hold to any beliefs at all) that if you are going to do a thing, you should do it well. What is the point of doing something badly, and X's lies were badly done. It would not have taken too many brains, or too much effort for X to arrange their lies to 'fall into line.' Lies that would stand enough scrutiny to be believed, or believed by the right person for the right amount of time. Lies that you could be proud of, lies that would stand the test of time, but X wasn't that type of liar. Their lies were shoddy things, built on the cheap by a charmer of snakes that couldn't be bothered to make sure their lies were consistent. 

Lies are like that, they like milk, have an expiration date. And like milk, you need to keep gallons and gallons of them around just in case you need to either make a cake, eat a lot of cereal, or convince someone you love them beyond compare.  An expired lie is as useless as useless can be, and once X's lies started to expire things only got worse. X became unable to renew their lies fast enough, and those among us who still cared began to pull the string that unraveled all those lies.  It didn't take much, because as I said, once we started sorting it out, we really realized what a poor liar X really was. A charlatan that promised us the tonic to cure all our ills, but was just merely selling us sugar flavoured water. Sweet tasting at first, but ultimately bad for our teeth, our stomach, and everything else we had. 

Therefore, I had to cut X out of my life. What distant shore they washed up upon, I do not know, nor do I particularly care. It is not something that concerns me over much. X was never going to be one that stuck around, even before I started to no longer believe their lies. There were some nice lies in the amongst the regular detritus of lies that X spouted, but they were just simply lies. Lies that we chose to believe until we figured out that they were not true. We always had that sliver of hope that X would reform, or the belief that X lied to everyone but not to us. That is the foolishness of mankind writ large, to believe that someone is going to put you in the 'special bin', and treat you differently (i.e. better) than they treat the rest of the world. That is fool's gold, and you might as well try proving that Santa Claus really does exist while you are believing in miracles. However, like the rest of the known world I will still hang my stockings with care in the (vain) hope that X and Santa do not have as much in common as I think they do. 

Skriva

In keeping  with my own personal thanksgiving tradition, I am sitting in my 'home', minding my own business, and polluting the interweb with a blog post. I hope that my massive readership is having the day they want to have with no regrets, and that they enjoy my latest poor attempt at entertaining them.

There is a reason that this blog is as old as it is, and will continue to grow older. It is the simple fact of writing. I started a long time ago trying to write, and looking back at my first posts, I realize they are dreadful. However, like most skills, writing requires practice, and this blog is my practice. An open practice for all who care to attend. I certainly hope that over the years of my practicing my writing that it has improved. On my good days, I look back at the newer stuff, and think to myself that is has gotten better, on my bad days I look at it, and cringe. On numerous occasions my hand has hovered on the 'delete blog' button, but I have always managed to talk myself out of such a radical step. 

For better or worse (mostly worse) I write it down. Now that world has gotten all fancy and shit, writing is not really what I do. What I do is type it all down, but the theory remains the same. Write it all down, or at least as much as you can, or care to, remember. Write down as much as you have the time to do, write down as much as your inherent laziness allows you to.  For if you don't write it down, there is no real way to make sure it actually happened. Volumes and volumes of 'history' have been lost to time because no one was there to write it down. Not that anything I engage in is remotely worthy of the history books, but again the theory remains the same.

History, that odd collection of dates, facts, people, places, and things that we selectively choose to record, is something for books. My life is not something that needs to be shaped into a book form. For the most part it is as dull as watching paint dry, the few moments of excitement are hardly worth the hours of mindless drudgery that make up the majority of my time on this planet.  History is, the saying goes, written by the winners. Once again this probably excludes me or mine from the history books. While  I am (I hope) not quite the loser that I can make myself out to be, or quite the loser that a few people would tell you I am, I do not delude myself into thinking that I am a 'winner.'  At best, I am just trying to draw with life, and I don't mean I plan on making pretty pictures, I mean I would like to at least keep life even.  I don't want to be carried around the village square on the shoulder of my boon companions (it would take a lot of boon companions to lift my big ass) in some celebration of my accomplishments, but I also don't want to be wheezing out my dying breath in some dingy hotel room, in some wayward city on the frontier of nowhere mourned by only the hotel clerk, and the rest of the vermin with whom I shared the place. 

Therefore, my history, the only history I really care about (there was a time, a life time ago when that was not true) is something that I have to write down, or it did not really happen. Thus, this blog, a place that while I sorely neglect from time to time, has become my own personal history channel.  A channel that anyone can watch, and anyone can ignore, I figure that the ignore camp is by far the majority in this, but as I have written before, I do not particularly care. After all what I am writing down is, in the main, the history of me. Certainly there are other actors on this stage with me, and some of them are extremely important. Some of them have such major roles that if they were to cease to be then I might as well book that lonely hotel room, and await the end I hope to avoid. Of course, there are also the bit players, the one that are limited to 'their hour upon stage' and are heard of no more. Mere blips on the radar screen that is my history.  Important blips, maybe, but still blips.  Some choose to be blips, coming into my life, taking a look around, and after calm consideration, deciding that my life was not quite the stage that they were meant for.

Which is fair enough, after all we are all living our own histories, and I am quite certain that to many I am merely a blip, a bit player on the stage of their life. Truth be told, that is (mostly) all I ever really want to be, I am not leading man material for anybody else but myself. I have to be my own leading man in my history, I can't get around that problem. However, the Clark Gables of the world need not fret, I actively seek to avoid leading man roles for others. Although despite my best attempts there are a few people who would tell you that I play a fairly large role in their life/history. Of course, there are ones who would tell that they would prefer that not to be true, and are busy trying to 'consign me to the dustbin' of their histories, a task that I do not try to hinder. But, there are also (I hope) there are a select few that would tell you that, while I might be a mad cunt, I play a larger role in their life than either one of us is happy about.  I also suspect, there exists (an even more select) few that tell you that if I were to 'be heard of no more' if would make their history poorer. It is to the latter group that I dedicate this post to, but as I ponder upon it more, I also dedicate this post to those blips, those poor players that decided for better or worse to strut off my stage. After some of you have provided me with reams of material that is, as yet, unwritten.  Merci. 

Funeral for a Friend

Pay close attention to the title, it is not funeral of a friend, but rather funeral for a friend. I found myself in the sad position to attend a funeral for a friend today. That friend's mother had died, and as her offspring's friend I fulfilled my duty by attending the funeral. Not that I deserve any special kudos for that, it is what friends are supposed to do, funerals, wedding, baby showers, and all the other duties that adulthood imposes upon us. Gone are the days of 21st birthday parties and wild bachelor parties. Sometimes being an adult sucks, but sometimes you just have to  realize that life sucks a lot more often than it should.

I had already had a fairly rotten two days when I arrived at this funeral, and yet as I sat there listening to the pastor say his words that were designed to comfort us all, but which I found a perverse dislike for, I realized that, more likely than not, I am at least going to have the chance to have a crappy day again tomorrow. It already is shaping up to be that way, and I am not looking forward to it, but it is still going to arrive for me in about 10 hours. Something that the recently deceased will not have the luxury of having. I, being a non-believer, think that this mortal coil is all we have, and once we shuffle off of it, we cease to exist either as a body or a 'spirit'. Granted, this is not a widely held view, nor it is a particularly happy view, but it is a view that I have put considerable, and considered thought, and effort into fashioning. 

Still, as I kept my voice silent, not voicing any objections I may have with the views being expressed before me, I began to wonder if maybe those words were going to comfort some of the assembled gathering, and isn't that enough? Whatever wound those words provide a balm for, is one less open wound in the world, and in a world full of open wounds that has to be a good thing.  The disbelief of some damn fool like me non-withstanding should not be an obstacle to these good people feeling that their loved one is now in a better place.  The sad part is that, for the briefest of seconds, and perhaps it was due to my own emotional turmoil, that those words, and the promise that they held almost had me on board. For a millisecond or so, I almost came back to the fold that I so willfully left over two decades ago.  A bridge, in many ways the first bridge, that I burned solidly to the ground looked almost worth rebuilding.

Then, the absurdity of the situation struck me, who the fuck converts at a funeral? It was both absurd, and extremely selfish (to which both charges I enter a full, and spontaneous confession), after all I was here to support my friend in her time of grief, not to ponder the return to the flock. That is what I would like to say is the only reason that I am not walking across that rebuilt bridge, but I am not that pure, never have been, never will be. Part of my issue was the rest of the herd.  A look to both my right and my left, gave me a pause, a long pause, a deep seated paused that I have not recovered from since.  There are reasons for both of those directions giving me pause, and none of those reasons need overly concern us here. Even if I could write it without unleashing a firestorm upon my head, and I can't, this is not the space to do it.

No, this is the space about a funeral for a friend, a friend of only about 6 years of my life, but 6 years of my friendship is probably a bit like a prison sentence. I am not, nor shall I ever be, some one who makes friends easily. However, once made it is difficult to get shed of me as a friend. I also figure that it is a difficult thing being my friend, but this person has never complained about it even once. She is always happy, and positive, and not in a 'just took a pill' way. I think she is just a very well grounded happy person. A type that I wasn't sure existed, and certainly would not think would be able to stand me (or me them) as a friend, but nevertheless here we are friends until (and I hope this is a long, long time from now) one of us will be attending the funeral of a friend.


For Patience, who has lived up to her given name more times than I care to think about during the time of our friendship. 

The Wanderer

The English word for planet comes from the Greek word for wanderer. I say this as an opening because compared to the planets, you are the Sun. I've had a lot more than the eight or nine (depending on how you feel about Pluto) planets 'wander' into and out of my personal solar system in my time on this planet, and most of them I was happy to see transit out of my gravitational field.  Yes, I am big enough to have my own gravitational field. However, that isn't really the point of this post, those 'wanderers' that stayed for a brief time in the solar system of my life, have gone, and are mostly forgotten. They were only 'inhabitable' for a while, and then became less so, some even became down right inhospitable.

With a little more forward thinking research, I should have been able to detect the inhospitable environments that many of these planets possessed. However, I am clearly not an ace in the field of forward thinking. To colonize the planet in front of me was, in the main, my immediate goal, and being an immediate goal became my only goal. It was only after the colony ships had been launched, and a base erected, supported, and established that I realized the environment(s) were unfriendly, unhealthy, or unsustainable.  Some times it was the like the coldest place in the 'real' solar system, those dark craters near the South Pole of the Moon, where the temperature can reach a brisk 397 degrees below zero. Or, at time it was similar to the hottest place, besides the core of the Sun, in this solar system, that being the core of Jupiter which cooks along at about 15,000 degree Kelvin. Hot, or cold, raining base metals, or as dry as dry can be, each of these places ultimately proved fatal to the colonists I sent to 'plant my flag' on their surface(s).

Then there is you, the Sun in this personal solar system of mine. Not that you are all sunshine all the time, no one that I can stand to be around for more than 5 consecutive minuets would be, but there you are the centre nonetheless. I share the same affliction that Ptolemy possessed, that being the belief that the Earth, and here I replace the Earth with myself, as being the centre of the universe. In many ways, because I am the person I am, that remains true. However, it took you 'wandering' into my solar system all those years ago to disabuse me of that notion. Granted you didn't accomplish this extraordinary feat overnight, and at first I had no real clue you had achieved it at all. It wasn't until you too transited out of my system that I begin to suspect what you had done.

Even then, it was just that the merest hint of a clue, something akin to the briefest of glances that we can risk in the general direction of the actual Sun, lest we blind ourselves with its light. Staring at the Sun is, in the main, not a particularly good idea.  It took a truly 'Earth' shattering event akin to my own personal Copernican revolution for me to realize, ever so slowly, what I should have seen from the beginning. The fact that I should have known from the start was not a comfort, nor was the fact that even before I realized it, I had gone through the most elaborate 'colonizing' effort of my life with you.  That should have been, to me at least, a much bigger clue that it actually was, but I remind you about my earlier comment about me and forward thinking. It just does not seem to be my strong suit.

However, while I may be a slow learner, I am still a learner, and while it has taken me exactly way too long to figure all of this out, I have managed to figure it out. As usual it is probably a day late and a dollar short, but being a fool's type of fool, here I am not the less. Looking forward and slightly to the left, and seeing the Sun in my system. The Sun that has been there the actual centre of this system since I first managed to 'wander' my own self into their path. The Sun that outshines all the other wandering planets I have come across in this great, cold universe that I call my life. The Sun that is still there burning as bright if not brighter than ever. Making itself clear as the nose on my face, as clear as a bell, and as clear as clear can be. Sometimes a little wandering is what it takes to realize how far from the centre you've gone, and how much fun it is to wander your way back to that warm, sunny, centre that you should never have left in the first place.

Le Bon

As usual, they were both wrong, they like to think that they comprise the beginning, middle, and end of the universe, but, much to their chagrin, there are a lot of other people on this rock with them. They both did think that they were the only two people in that alley on that fateful night, and as I said they were both wrong. I was there, that what I do be there when a lot of people think I am not. Its not that I don't have a physical presence, it just that at times I can fade into the background with relative ease.

Not that fading took a lot of effort on that night, it was darker than Monty Burns' heart, and even though neither one of them mentioned it, it was raining as well. Not a pissing down rain, but the kind of rain that comes into town, looks around, and declares 'I'm staying for a couple of days, get used to me.' Like a visiting in-law that you just can't toss out on their ass, no matter how much you'd like to. I was, in more ways than one, the guy in the middle. Middle of the part as one brooded at one end, and the other 'charmed' his way into getting asked to leave at the other.  Middle part of the 'feud' between these two idiots, that people on the outside looking in might refer to as a couple of my friends. Nothing could be further from the truth, neither one of these jackleg thugs were any part of a friend to me. Their respective personalities made it impossible for me to befriend either one of them.

Also, I am not a man that makes friends on a lark. When I meet a 'new' person it takes a while for me to warm up to them. One of the most common comments about me from a newly met person is 'I've the feeling you don't care much for me.'  Which is, at the time of being spoken, mostly true. I am a bit like tungsten, I have a very, very high melting point. One or two casual chats over a pint or three, will not make us 'friends for life.'  I had shared more than just pints with both of them, and maybe that would be why some people would confuse them for my friends.  It didn't really matter that I had a use for them both, and getting that use from them was the main reason that I kept them in sight. I knew that they had some issues, and being the brains of the outfit, I knew that those issues were going to have to be sorted out, one way or another.  It was my job, one that I eventually failed at, to make sure that those issues weren't sorted out on a permanent basis.

When I saw them both in the same bar at the same time, I gathered there was going to be trouble, and I was dead set to try and avoid them having trouble, at least until my use for them no longer existed.  I saw the interchange between the first one and the bouncer, but I didn't really hear the words that were exchanged. From their respective reactions it was pretty clear that his presence was no longer required at the bar.  I also noticed the other ones eyes light up as he realized what was happening to his 'friend.'  I took especial notice of his paying his tab, and sliding out of the door unnoticed. Unnoticed that is by everyone but me.  I am a 'pay as you go kind of person, so I was just able to 'sneak' out of the  door before the 'escorting' took place. I knew the bar, I knew the street, I knew the alley, and I knew that is where these two idiots would eventually meet. It was my task to get there first.  That much I did accomplish, but for once I had underestimated these two fools.

That I underestimated them, is a badge of shame that I will carry around with me for a very, very long time. I knew both of them fairly well, but I would have never predicted that both of them would be spoiling for the kind of settlement that happened that night. I've read both accounts, and I realize that they both think they are telling the whole truth, but as with most stories, they leave a lot of stuff out. It is very difficult to tell a good yarn about yourself without 'editing' out the bad bits. The bits that make you look like a murdering bastard, or the bits that make you look like a homicidal maniac spoiling for a fight.  I will keep most of the details of the actual truth (or my version of the truth, which might not be the actual, actual truth) to myself.  Both of their versions have kernels of truth in them, and both versions are full of lies.  I should know I was there. I survived the encounter, and I didn't flee the encounter with the fear of John Q. Law.

To say that I was both surprised, and unhappy at the outcome would be a vast understatement.  Surprised because I really didn't think that either one of them had that kind of violence left in them, but clearly I was wrong. I do not like being wrong. Surprised that both of them came to the party with violence in mind, and surprised at the permanent ending of their little dispute. I really do not like being surprised.  Unhappy because despite the fact that I did not (and still don't) overly like either one of them, I had a use for them both remaining alive, and accessible. Now, one is dead, and I am sitting outside a dingy hotel room, in some grimy city, in a province that I'm not overly fond of.  

I'm here because when the 'winner' ran, I chased him, and I've been chasing him every since. I saw him dispose of the 'murder' weapon. I saw the panic, and smelt the fear on him many times as I got ever so close to him before tonight. I like to think he hasn't a clue that I've been tracking him like a migratory duck since that fateful night, but I figure (from his actions) that he has at least a small inkling that he is not, or ever going to be entirely 'safe.'  He won't mention me in his little tale of what happened that night, and the other one didn't either, but rest assured, if either of them had any sense they would have realized I was never far from the scene. I didn't involve the authorities in this little drama, because I am not a fan of authority. Besides, I figure this kind of thing needs to be settled man to man to man, and now since there are only two men left, it should be just that much easier to settle. 

And it must needs settling tonight. It has gone on far too long, and sidetracked my original plan. I get a bit upset when my plans are sidetracked. Room 6 is where he has come to roost, and room 6 is my destination. I am sure that some people will think I am doing a bad thing, and when I knock on the door things might get ugly, but I am hoping for a good result. 

La Mal

Make no mistake, I killed the bastard. I am trying to decide whether I did the world a favour or not, but I do not dispute I killed him. Murdered him, well that is another thing entirely. Murder is something that a legal system, and some fancy pants lawyers to decide. I have no intention of letting that decision take place with me in the room.  That is why I am in another dingy hotel room, in another unnamed city, in yet another state. I have been 'on the lamb' as they say since the night I put three bullets in him. I figure that 3 bullets of the calibre I used cost me about 4 dollars, it remains the best 4 dollars I've ever spent.

Of course I was there the night in question, I was at the dimly lit bar that was our mutual haunt. He was just too far into his cups to notice me at the other end of the bar. Not that I was trying to be noticed, I was just there to have a few drinks, and ponder why the world allows scum such as him to live, let alone prosper. Because don't believe his lies, he was prospering.  Not driving a Ferrari type of prospering, but well off enough to afford what he wanted, and he certainly wasn't missing any meals.  He said he 'offered to throw himself out' that much is mostly true. He did make that snide remark to the bouncer, but by the time he said it he was already being escorted to the back door. The door that I knew lead to a dead end alley. He knew it too, we all knew it, alleys have several uses, and trash disposal isn't the only use an alley can have.

As the bouncer, not actually an ape, but a fairly gentle giant, closed the door behind him, I was already paid up and out of my seat headed towards the front door. He and I needed to have a nice quiet conversation, and I figured now was as good a time as any. I walked out the front door, turned left, and looked down the dimly lit alley to see him swaying ever so gently near the back door. He paused a moment as if he was getting his bearing, and decided that the brick wall/dead end part of the alley was not for him. That's when he turned and saw me. He was drunk, drunk as a lord, drunk as drunk can be, and I am quiet sure he would have never remembered any conversation we would have. Still, I tried. I called his name and he peered at me trying to ascertain who the hell I was.

That is when the knife came out, and he might say it was ever so slowly, but I was there and I was about three drinks behind him in the race towards oblivion. I knew he carried a knife, he always said that knifing a man was more personal, it showed you cared enough about the other person to get that close. I,on the other hand, do not like having too much physical contact with other people, so I prefer a different type of protection. For a 'knee bobbling' drunk he certainly was quick, and his attempt to get up close and personal with me (knife in hand) left me little choice but to draw the revolver I had inherited from my father and fire one quick shot at him.

I aimed a bit high and to the right trying just to wound him, to stop him from coming any closer, and carving me up like a xmas goose. I knew he was a fair hand with a blade, and I did not feel like losing my good looks to his handiwork.  The first bullet wouldn't have been fatal, on that much we can agree. It was never meant to be fatal. But it didn't even slow his drunk ass down. He kept coming for me, and now there was a look in his eyes that I had seen before. It was a 'tell' of his. His eyes were normally a light shade of blue/grey, but when they turned into a steely blue, there was going to be trouble. Even in the dim light of the alley, I saw his eyes literally change colour to that steely blue. I knew then it was him or me, and I figured it was going to have to be him.  I don't remember saying anything to him, either before or after the first shot. I just remember that I knew shot number two had to count, and I made it count. I shot him center mass, watched him stagger a couple of steps then shot again.

I've no idea if the third shot him or not, he crumpled to the ground, and I ran off in a blind panic. I did not walk away 'as cool as the other side of the pillow.' I ran like a scared rabbit, and I have been running every since. I ditched the revolver in a convenient, large, body of water, and I headed for parts unknown. I've moved an untold number of times since that fateful night, a night that I get the pleasure of reliving when I am finally able to fall asleep, which is happening less and less. I guess I should be grateful for the fact that I get to relive that night, after all, for him it was the end. For me it was almost like a beginning, a beginning of a loop of a nightmare that is played at varying speeds in my mind both awake and asleep.

  I killed him, that much is true, it was not planned, it was not clever, and it was not murder. I had my reasons, most of which he knew, he was a clever lad, the ones he didn't know were the ones that only I know.  The reasons that only I could feel, the ones that only I could think. He would never have been able to suss out those reasons even if he'd lived to be a thousand years old. That the kind of person he was. I realize that his 'death' has been ruled an homicide, and remains unsolved. I've no plans to turn myself in, and ask for the king's mercy, and I've also no idea if there were any witnesses to the event, my gut tells me that if there had been, they would have come forward by now, but that is the rub, one never really knows these types of things until it is too late .It was a mercy for him, and for the rest the world. Sometimes the ugly has to removed the hard way.

Mord

As I heard the door close behind me with a soft, but discernible 'click', I knew that the way back was closed to me for ever, or at least for the rest of the night. As my eyes were still adjusting to the gloom of the alleyway into which I had been shoved, I became certain that this was not the way to grandma's house after all. However, the good news, if there was to be any good news at all, is that I always carried a handy, dandy blade whenever I visited the drinking den that I had just been, none too gently, expelled from.  Truth be told, I had done what I thought was the sporting thing to do, and offered to throw myself out this time just for variety. An offer than was frowned upon by the hulking brute at the door. With a grunt and a very menacing nod (who nods with menace?) he made it clear to me that he was more than able, and very willing to help me find my way out of the bar. It was my choice, one that was quickly being decided for me, as to whether I walked out, or landed out on the sidewalk.

I, being a thinking man, decided that one more rough, unceremonious landing would be bad for both my physical and mental health. Therefore, I graciously agreed to allow the trained ape to 'escort' me to the door, and bid him good night, good health, and a undefined sexually transmitted disease, as he pushed me, none too gently, into the welcoming alley. Perhaps welcoming is not the right word for the unnamed alley that ran behind this particular bar, but it didn't appear to be particularly foreboding at the time. Boy, was I wrong about that.  As the door finished closing behind me, and I straightened out my slightly rumpled clothing, I realized that it was a lot later than I had thought, and that perhaps those last two drinks were not, in hindsight, a very good idea.  Unsteady on my pins would be one way to describe me, if you were being generous, knee bobbling drunk would be another, more accurate term for me at that time.

Either way, drunk me was now clearly no longer welcome at the bar to his back, and decided that home was probably the best place for me to be, if I could just figure out which direction home was, then I would be golden. Bleary eyed, I took a gander in both directions of the alley, and was able to puzzle out that home was probably located somewhere in the opposite direction of the brick wall that was at the end of the south end of the alley. Pleased with myself for my ability to form such complex navigation, I set off in the direction of the open end of the alley.  It was only after about three steps that I heard the noise and saw the vague shape looming (with just the right amount of loom, I might add) at the entrance to the alley.  I peered off in that direction, in a futile attempt to ascertain whether or not I knew the shape blocking my path to my nice warm bed.

Slowly, it dawned upon my booze addled brain, that I did know the person, and they were no friend of mine. I reached ever so slowly in my left pocket and began to ever so slowly draw out the switchblade that I carried with me for just such an occasion. As they walked closer to me, I realized my mistake. Not the mistake of recognition, I knew exactly who this person was, but the mistake that was to be my last. I looked at the revolver in their hand, and realized with a bit of terror, and a bit of irony that I had brought a knife to a gun fight. They just looked at me with a great deal of anger, a bit of disdain, and a dash of hate, as they realized my mistake as well. 'Always the tough guy huh?' they rasped out with a bit of a chuckle. 'Well I am not tough, I am just efficient' and with that, and before I could respond with some witty retort, they shot me three times in the chest.

The first bullet wouldn't have killed me, they say, but it sure as fuck hurt like hell. It was a bit high and to the left and it enter my upper chest near my collarbone, came out of my back and broke my left scapula. Once again, not fatal, but it certainly was going to keep me out of the weekly cricket games for a while. I guess they had time in those few seconds between shots one, and two to steady their aim, and the second bullet caught me dead in the chest. It entered between the 2nd and 3rd rib on my left (ish) side, did all sorts of damage to those bones, nicked my aorta, and lodged against my spine. The third bullet I never really knew much about, because I took about 5 steps towards my killer, and dropped like a stone. I wasn't dead before I hit the ground, but I died about 8 seconds after I landed in the heap that they would find me in come morning. Once that aorta is ripped open there isn't much hope for you, in case you wondered. I didn't have time to wonder all of this lovely medical knowledge, I was a bit too wrapped up in dying.

The person at the open end of the alley, the person that had just murdered me, looked down at me with the distaste that one normally reserves for dog shit, and shook their head once slowly from side to side. They then pocketed the murder weapon, turned, and walked away into the night as pretty as you please, and as cool as the other side of the pillow. I am not sure how well they planned my murder, nor am I certain as to all of the reasons they killed me, I have a couple of theories, but once you are dead, theories don't carry a lot of weight.  Not much really matters after that death thing. They got away with it, because they were clever, or because no one was around, or if anyone was around they never came forward. I was scraped off the alley, put into the meat wagon, sliced open like a xmas turkey, my cause of death ruled multiple gunshot wounds, and my manner of death a homicide. Sometimes the bad guys win. 

Destin

Tonight (well actually last night, I am a day late with this post) 12 people that I do not know, or sure that I want to know have my fate in their hands. Actually, that is also not exactly true. They have the fate of another person in their hands, and I am one of the people that helped to put it there. These people, carefully selected, are deciding the fate of a many a week of my (and others) work. And, as I lie here tossing, and turning trying to find the right position to find sleep, I can't  help but wonder if maybe I've made some major mistake in picking those 12 people.

Granted, I wasn't alone in picking them, and I have not been alone in trying to convince them how to decide, but in many ways, I feel that they are deciding my fate as well. My fate feels inexorably intertwined with the other fate that is being decided and that is the real reason they have been assembled. While my freedom is not at stake, it still seems as if I am being judged as well. Judged on my performance, judged on every little detail, judged on every word I say, and even the ones I don't, judged on a multitude of things, several of which I have absolutely no control over. It is not a particularly pleasant feeling. As sleep refuses to come, and I replay the last several days wondering what, if anything, I could have done better to influence these 12 souls to decide the way I want them to.

The sad part of all this drama is that for the past week, these 12 people have been staying in a hotel, which is far more luxurious than my adobe, and they have probably been eating better than I have as well. That is not overly sad, but it makes me feel a little bit unfulfilled. These people have a big decision in front of them, and here I am thinking that I am sure they haven't been surviving on hot dogs (like I have) all week. Funny the things one chooses to focus on while under all this stress. Stress is not something that I enjoy, and I am quite sure that the 12 people have probably noticed that during the last week.  I hope that I have done a decent job of handling the stress of the situation, but one never really knows, does one?

These 12 people have no idea that my fate is also in their hands, I am sure if they did it would confuse them even further than listening to me already has. In many ways, I am glad they haven't a clue, but part of me just wants to clue them into the fact that this is really, really important to me. I doubt they would be overly concerned, but I would at least like to give it a shot. I won't of course, because those aren't the rules we play by. So, I lie here and look at the moonlight filtering through the window, and wonder if maybe blankness and darkness wouldn't be a more preferable fate.  To step out into that blankness and darkness and not look back, leaving the decision on my fate unknown.

If I had my way that unknown fate would stay just that, unknown. Perhaps the best fate is an unknown fate. The fate that you don't know, you can't really worry too much about, or try too hard to change. This unknown fate, the fate that I begin to ponder harder as I get out of the bed, finally giving up on that elusive sleep, and wander into my backyard.  I look up at those distant stars, and wonder if maybe my fate is written somewhere in them. These dimly visible objects that were born so very long ago, and that will be around long after I am food for worms.  Maybe I've really got nothing left to lose, and that unknown fate will be a wide blessing. A fate that I deserve (which is too horrid to really think about) or maybe a fate I don't deserve (which might just turn me into either a tragic hero, or a better person). These 12 people, who I don't know, and who I don't think I want to know have this in their hands, and they don't even realize it.

The implications of that last bit, make me want to find a freight train, hop it, and start a new life at the end of the line. I won't do that, because that decision, while very, very tempting, is the coward's way out. In spite of the many flaws I posses, and in spite of the fear that I am certain is obvious to everyone around me, I will stay here and accept the fate, unknown or not that is to be doled out to me.  Having the courage of my convictions can be a very bothersome thing, but having that courage in my convictions is what, in so very many ways, makes me the person, for good or bad, that ends up having his fate decided by 12 strangers.

And so as the morning images burn themselves into my mind, I stagger from the bed that was not a sleeping cell, but more a torture rack, and make myself ready to face the day.  The day which will, hopefully, see my fate decided for better or worse by 12 strangers. As colour starts to find its way into the sky, and I stumble through my morning routine like some automaton, I try to keep my hands from shaking as I assemble the necessary items I need to face my fate with as much dignity as I can muster.  Let's hope, for form's sake that it is enough.